


my saloon will do quite nicely

by tinsnip



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Canadian baking is not to be sniffed at, M/M, and i had a good time writing it, butter tarts, doesn't everybody talk to their car?, this is silliness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-10
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2020-06-25 14:41:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19747801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinsnip/pseuds/tinsnip
Summary: The Bentley rumbled disapprovingly, nearly sideswiping a city bus.“Look, there’s nothing I cando.He says we go too fast for him—”Rrrm.“All right! Fine.Igo too fast for him. But you’re not helping.”Vrrrrm!***In which Crowley talks to his car, the Bentley is passive-aggressive, and Aziraphale likes Canadian baking.





	my saloon will do quite nicely

**Author's Note:**

> Directly inspired by [one of my favourite pieces of Good Omens fanart by ymmish.](https://ymmish.tumblr.com/post/185733765305/i-like-to-imagine-that-bentley-just-fuckin-blasts)
> 
> Queen songs referenced in this one: These Are The Days of Our Lives, It's Late, and - yeah - Good Old Fashioned Lover Boy, which is the Bentley's song for me now. Hot seat of love indeed.
> 
> _Available translated into Russian[here](https://ficbook.net/readfic/8434866), with thanks to loosely._

Freddie Mercury sang longingly about the passing of time and the constancy of love in a changing world, and Crowley rolled his eyes and pretended to vomit.

“Would you _stop_ playing soppy garbage, please,” he said, changing lanes without signalling.

The speakers cut out, and the Bentley growled at him.

“Oh, don’t be like that. All right. Fine. Play what you like. Just... no _sad_ stuff.”

The radio hissed static.

“Look,” said Crowley, “it’s not that I don’t like the song. I’m just not in the mood for it right now, all right?”

The static popped and fizzed. Under the hood, the Bentley’s motor grumbled.

“No, no, it’s nothing you’ve done. You’re a good car, you know that.”

The static faded out. The Bentley hummed along quietly for a few minutes, greasing through traffic like a shiny black oil slick, and then the radio switched on again: _it’s late,_ sang Freddie softly, _ooh, is it just my sickly pride?_

Crowley sighed. “What’re you getting at?”

The music got a little bit louder. And then a lot louder. Crowley winced and fiddled with the knob. It didn’t do anything: _it’s late,_ insisted Freddie, _it’s late, it’s late, but not too late..._

“Look, I know, but I’m not sure exactly what you’re expecting me to do. Can’t make someone feel the way they don’t feel. Well... you _can,_ but look, trust me on this, it doesn’t work out well.”

The Bentley rumbled disapprovingly, nearly sideswiping a city bus.

“Look, there’s nothing I can _do._ He says we go too fast for him—”

_Rrrm._

“All right! Fine. _I_ go too fast for him. But you’re not helping.”

_Vrrrrm!_

“He does _not_ go too slow for me,” said Crowley. “He just goes at his own speed. And why are _you_ in such a hurry anyway? I’ve been waiting on him for six thousand years. You’re not even a hundred yet.”

The Bentley flipped a wiper sulkily.

“I won’t take any of that from my own car. Remember who bought you.”

A sullen sort of rev of the engine, and Crowley pursed his lips.

“All right. Stole you. And you’re happier for it. You don’t want to know about classic car shows, you trust me on that.”

On went an insolent blinker, and the Bentley changed lanes, jerking Crowley sideways, as its engine bellowed. Pressed back into his seat, Crowley rolled his eyes, exasperated.

“Going _faster_ isn’t going to solve anything. Suppose I can’t expect much from a car - going faster is all you know how to do.”

The headlights flicked on angrily; the radio dialled itself to maximum volume, and Freddie shouted insistently: _what game are you playing? what’s this you’re saying?_

“Oh yeah?” shouted Crowley. “Oh yeah? You’re so clever, think you can do better? Well, let me tell you, you _horseless carriage—”_

 _Screeeech_ went the brakes, pulling to a dead stop in front of A Z Fell & Co, and Crowley very nearly impacted the windshield.

_“Hey!”_

The engine cut out. So did the music. Crowley’s door opened violently.

“Oh, really,” muttered Crowley, extricating himself, and very nearly losing a few fingers as the door slammed shut.

He pointed a finger at the car. “Don’t you be like that.”

It puffed exhaust at him.

A few minutes later, as Aziraphale seated himself carefully in the passenger’s seat, Crowley leaned against the car and muttered, apparently to no one, “You behave.”

He slid in and the car adjusted itself around him. Aziraphale was putting on his seat belt, which hadn’t been there a moment ago and wouldn’t be there after he left.

“I do hope we get there in time,” he said. “Last year there weren’t any butter tarts left at all.”

“Can’t see what’s so special about tarts. You can get tarts anywhere.”

“Not butter tarts. Not _proper_ butter tarts. You’ve got to go all the way to the colonies.” Aziraphale wriggled himself into a comfortable spot, shopping bag folded neatly on his lap. “Let’s go.”

Crowley lifted a hand—

—and the Bentley started smoothly, softly, gently, the engine humming, almost singing to itself.

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows. “It hardly sounds like the same car. Have you had it tuned up?”

Crowley did not press his lips together and most definitely did not frown. “Nope.”

Aziraphale shrugged, not knowing enough about cars to press the issue. Crowley didn’t know much about cars either, not in general, but he knew a fair bit about this one.

“What’re you playing at?” he hissed, sotto voce.

“I’m sorry?” said Aziraphale.

“Never mind. Let’s go.”

The Bentley purred as he pulled into the road. It didn’t rev. It didn’t vibrate. It just _purred._ It was... _spooky._

Crowley was usually all for spooky, but he didn’t like this. He hardly had to steer. The Bentley was almost guiding itself, buttery-smooth, down the road and around the corner, taking its time, placidly pacing itself; it paused at the corner, allowing another driver to go first, before signalling delicately and making a sedate turn.

“My goodness,” said Aziraphale, “how courteous of you.”

Crowley shot him a look; Aziraphale smiled.

“It’s a compliment, Crowley.”

“Thanksss,” he said, and shrunk irritably into his seat, itchy all over. This was embarrassing. It wasn’t proper demonic behaviour at all, being a courteous driver.

Before too long the city turned to suburbs, then to country roads. Green stretched out before them. Aziraphale fiddled with his shopping bag in an anticipatory kind of way.

“How long until we’re there, do you think?”

“Oh, not long, angel,” said Crowley, smiling lopsidedly, “not long at all,” and slammed his foot down on the accelerator.

Nothing happened.

Well, not _nothing:_ the Bentley shoved his foot right back up, and he almost kneed himself in the chin.

Aziraphale, who didn’t speak car, didn’t notice. “Well, that’s good. I really do want to be first in line. The Nanaimo bars go very quickly.”

“The what?” said Crowley, this time pressing very firmly down on the accelerator, feeling the car fight him on it, but Crowley could be very strong, he could be all muscle, couldn’t he, he—

—wasn’t a half-demonic car made of passive-aggressive _metal_ , and the accelerator pedal snidely set itself back where it had been and locked in place. He could’ve tap-danced on it, it wouldn’t have moved.

“—mostly chocolate,” Aziraphale was saying, “and some kind of very sweet cream, I’ll get you one if there are any left—”

“You knock it off,” Crowley whispered angrily, “you stop it _right now_ or I’ll—”

 _Tick tick,_ went a blinker, and the wheel spun under his fingers.

“—Marie Josée’s mother only makes them once a year now, she’s ninety-two, but she bakes like a _fiend—_ oh, dear, perhaps that’s not—”

He lowered his voice, pitched it sweet and poisonous: “Now you _listen_ to me—”

The radio switched on.

 _Be a Valentino just for youuu,_ sang Freddie Mercury, and Crowley made a strained sound.

Aziraphale’s train of thought derailed, gently. “Are you certain the car is all right?” he asked, looking over at Crowley.

“Fine, fine, angel, don’t you worry about a thing,” said Crowley, leaning his full body weight on the accelerator.

Aziraphale nodded thoughtfully. “Only we’re doing about twenty miles an hour, and that sign says we can go as fast as forty.”

“Is that so?” Crowley panted.

_—ooh, can you feel my love heat? c’mon, sit on my hot seat of love—_

“—oh, I’m going to take you through the car wash with your _windows_ open—”

“And at this rate, I think we will probably get to the bake sale shortly after the last trump.”

Crowley rolled his eyes and gritted his teeth, concentrating as hard as he could, willing with every last demonic inch of him for the damned car to _behave_ itself—

_—say the word, your wish is my command!—_

“Crowley!” said Aziraphale, impatiently.

_“What?”_

“Do you think I could possibly convince you to go a _little_ faster?”

Crowley’s eyes widened.

The Bentley revved its engine and leapt forward, roaring, guitars blazing as the volume soared, and both angel stock and demon breed were flattened against their seats as the car scorched its way down the formerly placid country lane.

“Thank you, Crowley, that’s _much_ better,” vibrated Aziraphale as the Bentley hurdled bumps in the road, “I daresay we’ll beat the rush!”

Crowley gripped the steering wheel, enveloped in vehicular smugness. Guitars tweedled at him. The accelerator pedal flattened itself to the floor of the car, jerking Crowley forward, and he narrowed his eyes and hissed, “You are on thin fucking iccce—”

 _Oooooh love,_ laughed the Bentley, _oooh, lover boy—everything’s all right, just hold on tight, that’s because I’m a good old-fashioned lover boy!_


End file.
